Wellness
by lyricsaboutcats
Summary: When Mordin comes down with a cold, it's up to Shepard to take care of him. (Mordin/Femshep, ME2)


_A/N: This is pre-established relationship fluff, pure indulgence on my part for my favorite ship. It was inspired by Mordinette's wonderful fic called Peace, Life and Recovery. A small amount of text is a modified version of lyrics from Iolanthe by_ _Gilbert and Sullivan._

 _I hope you enjoy it. c:_

* * *

Mordin Solus sat on a light green medical bed, feeling deeply affronted by the situation he found himself in. Karin Chakwas had just finished taking his temperature after poking and prodding him very thoroughly. He recognized his own methods instantly and narrowed his eyes at her.

"You've got a cold, dear," she was saying to him, tutting as if he should know better than to ever catch one. She turned away and opened a cabinet. "I'm going to prescribe eleven milligrams of dextromethorphan and bed rest for the remainder of the day."

Her voice echoed kindly around him in the Normandy's medical bay. Too kindly, for how chilly the thermometer had been in his mouth and how sterile the lights above him were.

Mordin's eyes narrowed further.

And the bed squeaked as he shifted with annoyance. "No need," he said. "Well enough to keep working. Propagated a bacteria culture myself this morning. _Bacillus ryskosis_. Very interesting. " He took a breath, ignoring how the air scratched against his throat and how cold he felt. "Not contagious," he added with a smothered cough.

"Mordin," Shepard said, "I'm not letting anyone on this ship work when they're sick."

She was leaning against a counter nearby, watching everything with a troubled expression and her arms crossed. Her freckles had faded with pale concern, matching the cast of his own face.

Mordin's eyes fell back to normal at the sound of her voice. But he waved her concern away with a gesture of his hand that immediately retreated to cover another cough. There were endless things to do as the only research scientist on the Normandy. He had samples to cook, and more bacteria cultures to propagate. And, more importantly, the Collector database wasn't exactly going to analyze itself.

His mind raced through a fog as he thought about all of it. The simple truth of the matter was that he was brilliant and he was harried, and he had places to be that didn't involve inconveniences like sitting around in bed all day. So Chakwas and Shepard would just have to understand, despite the way they were both looking at him.

The _bacillus ryskosis_ would also have to understand, despite its lack of a functioning neural network.

So Mordin stood up to leave, slipping past the combined protests of the human pair, hurrying until he was only a few feet away from the medical bay's entrance. But as his pace grew faster the world began to wobble in his vision, slowly turning sideways.

He took a painful, frustrated breath and immediately leaned against a counter to steady himself.

Shepard paled even further. Her face wobbled at the edge of his vision like everything else. "Is he really going to be all right?" she asked Chakwas.

"Oh, he'll be fine," Chakwas answered. "But doctors are absolutely terrible patients," she added. "I know because I'm one of the worst. He might need supervision to make sure he rests properly."

And then Chakwas gracefully held out the vial of liquid dextromethorphan to Mordin. He began debating under his breath if it was more embarrassing to take the vial or keep clutching the counter like he was enduring an earthquake.

He stared at the vial for a moment. "Would have prescribed four milligrams," he said, but took it.

"Only so you could keep working," Chakwas replied with a knowing smile. "Now, I'm assigning Shepard to make sure you get your rest. I'm sure you won't mind."

Mordin blinked down at the vial, then glanced at his free hand still clutching the edge of the counter. Chakwas obviously thought that she was sweetening the deal before she thoroughly knocked him out. But the truth was that it was very important to Mordin, lone research scientist of the Normandy SR-2, that Shepard didn't worry about him. He made a point of not letting her take care of him at all.

He wasn't concerned with himself, or the dust on his uniform and the long hours he kept. And if he could have just hidden in the lab and then come out again when he felt better, as bright and quick as usual, that would have been ideal.

He glanced uneasily at Shepard, who remained pale and watched him with fracturing patience. "I'll pull rank on you if you try to go back to work, Professor Solus," she said, lifting her chin slightly.

Mordin smiled a little at that despite himself. She never pulled rank on him about anything. "Understood, Commander," he said.

Chakwas nodded with approval. "Doctor's orders," she added. "You'll feel better when you wake up."

Mordin sniffed with an air of outnumbered dignity, then drank the medicine. It tasted like cherries.

Shepard smiled at him. "Come on," she said and helped him up.

Mordin's eyelid's wavered as she led him to the elevator. "You're going to take a hot bath," she was saying to him, with the same firm voice that she used to convince strangers to pour out their deepest secrets to her. "And then I'll bring you some tea. Gardner probably has some civvies in the storage deck that you can wear as pajamas until you feel better."

And as the elevator ascended Shepard unhooked his weapons, then his omni-tool, frowning while she thought about something. She paused for another moment, then reached up and took his silver audio-input device off of his shoulders. Mordin's eyes widened as she unceremoniously turned him around and yanked the entire thing from its place on his back.

Mordin glanced over his shoulder and down at her, trying not to smile and beginning to fail while she manhandled him. "Realize the subdued state might be tempting, Shepard," he said. He cleared his throat with a wince. "Try to restrain yourself."

Shepard raised an eyebrow at him, holding everything in her arms. "Excuse me?"

He couldn't help himself, not even with every word burning against his throat. He turned around again. "Intent to undress on full display," he explained, a little proudly. "Understandable, of course. Human hormone cycle. Attractive salarian pigmentation. Problematic considering the bacterial circumstances."

Shepard smirked and looked up at him through strands of red hair. "Mordin, I don't think you need to worry, " she said, almost teasingly. "I'm very good at not even trying to kiss you, remember?"

"Indeed," he agreed with a dip of his head. "The very best."

But, if Shepard was going to kiss anyone at all, it would have been him. Mordin felt a little smug about that. He was obviously her favorite.

And having her fuss over him wasn't as bad as he thought it would be, even in such a state. On the contrary, it was vaguely endearing. They entered her cabin. And after he took a long shower, breathing in hot steam and feeling a little regretful about the lost potential for the world of science that day, Mordin found himself in Shepard's bed wrapped in every warm blanket she had. The white jellyfish in her aquarium drifted like clouds nearby while she tucked him in.

Mordin said, "Worrying, Shepard. No need for it."

Her hands hesitated, clutching military issue gray wool. She looked embarrassed suddenly and pulled them away. "You're right," she said. "I don't ever know what to do when people get sick."

"Understandable," he replied. "Can't shoot a cold. Penchant for destruction mostly useless. Feelings of helplessness lead to irritation, lead to worry."

Shepard nodded. "My usual strategy is to drown people in omni-gel or find you and release an antidote into an H-VAC system, I guess."

He smiled at that. "Good strategy."

She patted his chest affectionately, and then stood up. Mordin watched her go until he was alone in the blankets with a click of the door sliding closed behind her. And it was in the silence, with nothing more than the gentle burble of the filters in the aquarium, that Mordin acknowledged how terrible he felt. His head pounded with pain and he felt vaguely dizzy. The medicine had yet to take effect.

The _bacillus ryskosis_ was truly a villain, he thought. It would be prudent to eradicate it from the galaxy when he felt better. He glanced at the door again, wondering if Shepard would set aside funding for the endeavor. He knew she probably would.

He calculated the costs and then the equipment needed until she came back. And Shepard carried a steel teapot on a tray from the mess. She set it on the nightstand next to him and poured him a cup of tea. "How are you feeling?" she asked as she handed it to him.

Mordin held the hot cup carefully in his bare hands. He patted his throat with a finger.

Shepard frowned. "Still? Even with the medicine?"

He nodded. His throat felt like sandpaper, and he drank the tea in a single gulp.

Shepard sighed, then looked around the cabin. "Well, we should probably get you something to do so you don't go completely stir crazy. I don't have a vid screen in here, but I could get you some music or something."

Mordin looked down at the empty cup, tapped his finger on it. At any other time, he would have said yes to music. His thoughts were racing through his brain without distraction or outlet. But he shook his head, unsteadied by even the simple movement. Percussion would have ended him. Worse, he might be tempted to sing along.

Shepard took the cup from him and set it on the nightstand. She tucked the blanket over his shoulders again. "It's strange to see you so quiet," she murmured. "I don't think I've ever seen you just... not talk."

Mordin took a breath. "Don't like the silence," he managed to say, pushing through the pain and trying to hide his unease. "Troublesome. Lots of thoughts. Ideas. Regrets. Prefer to get them out during the day."

She glanced at him. "Does it work?"

Mordin tilted his head as he thought about it. Sometimes it worked.

Sometimes.

Shepard nodded at the unspoken answer and sat down at the edge of the bed. Mordin knew that she wasn't a stranger to being haunted by the past, if her own tendency toward a lack of sleep was any indication. "Do you want me to talk for a while so you don't have to?" she asked him.

He glanced at her in surprise. Shepard was more of a listener, in his experience.

His throat was already beginning to throb from the exertion of speaking at all. "Would enjoy that, actually," he still said.

Shepard smiled and said, "Do you care about the subject?"

Mordin shook his head, clearing his throat again. He shifted beneath the blankets and his hand slipped along his own bare side before he settled it on his stomach. Bare skin met bare skin, etched with lines. Mordin hesitated, thinking about it, and then left it there. It was an unusual sensation without the gloves.

And he felt as if he was sinking for a moment, lost in blankets and pajama pants and the waning relief of the hot tea. Vulnerability wasn't a feeling that he was used to, or enjoyed in the slightest.

"I wonder what I should talk about," Shepard said to herself. She settled next to him and distracted him with a shift of the mattress. Blankets began to accumulate around her while she tucked herself in with him. "I guess I could tell you about when I became a Spectre. You missed that part."

Mordin felt his interest pique and took his hand away from his stomach, settled it at his side again. And then Shepard, usually a quiet person in favor of listening to others, began to tell him about it. She leaned against his shoulder.

"The whole thing started when Nihlus boarded the Normandy. Joker thought he was really suspicious." She paused, frowned a little at the memory. "I agreed with him, even though I regret it now. I'd never met a Spectre before, didn't have much experience with turians. When we went to the Citadel I'd never even been to the Presidium before."

The warmth of the blankets combined with her voice and surrounded him. It was low, with a soft pitch of affection whenever she smiled at him.

Listening to her was soothing. And, halted by his own forced journey into silence, Mordin began to travel with Shepard's words, walking along the Presidium with her while she marveled at the lake and the embassies for the first time. She described the Council chambers to him, and then the restaurants full of executives and diplomats. And Shepard explained to him quietly, almost aimlessly, about a bar called Flux where a volus named Doran had taught her to dance. She laughed a little when she remembered it.

"He taught me all of my best moves," Shepard said, glancing at him with a dry smile that was very self-aware.

In the slowing fog of his thoughts, Mordin almost felt that he was looking out the windows of Flux with her. He had never been there. He supposed that the medicine was finally taking effect, stronger by the moment.

The watery lights of the wards trembled as he watched them, veiled by both of their reflections on the glass. "Will have to send a thank you note for the entertainment," he said.

Shepard raised an eyebrow. "Hey, No talking, Mister."

Mordin glanced over at her and smiled. "Apologies."

She shook her head a little but smiled up at him. Then she placed her hand over his mouth in the cabin, willing him into silence, and winked at him in Flux. "So," she continued, leading him toward the neon evening of the wards, "When we couldn't convince the Council that Saren had shot Nihlus, we went looking for clues."

Mordin closed his eyes and listened. Shepard led him through the alley and the firefight to save Tali, then headed to C-Sec where she pointed out the orange tinted trees that grew without sunlight. They stepped into an elevator where tinny music played on the speakers.

Mordin reached out as they ascended, unsteadied by the idea of percussion, and took Shepard's hand in the blankets.

And when he tried to open his eyes again, the cabin was made of dim shadows and the gentle noise of the aquarium mixing with her voice. It was soft and insubstantial. Mordin wasn't quite sure if Shepard was still talking, or if he was dreaming in broken fragments. He knew that he was still holding her hand.

He reached out, placing his other arm over her to anchor himself, cupping her shoulder. In the haze, her voice paused and then continued again.

"Mordin," she was saying quietly to him, "are you all right?"

He settled against her, with his head resting against her collarbone. He could hear her heart beating at eighty-one beats per second. He closed his eyes.

The jellyfish floated like clouds above the Presidium's lake while she continued the story.

And it was during the second Council meeting that Mordin fell completely asleep, holding onto Shepard beneath the blankets while he watched her in the growing crowd of the Council Chambers. Shepard stepped forward to become the first human Spectre in history, and Mordin finally lost the battle against the eleven grams of dextromethorphan.

He really would have prescribed four milligrams, he thought as he faded.

He relaxed completely and drifted to sleep. Here was Shepard's red hair, he thought as he did so. The smooth fabric of her shirt, pressed against his skin. The sound of very soft breathing that he had come, over time, to associate so closely with her presence. The smell of the tea on the nightstand.

And Shepard saved the Citadel while he slept next to her.

He knew that she would.

Mordin dreamt of clouds against a blue sky above red trees. And when he awoke a few hours later, he took a deep breath. The cabin greeted him with its firm and less medicated reality. He noted that the air didn't scratch against his throat anymore. It was a simple matter to dig himself out of the blankets and pillows and sit up. He didn't even feel dizzy.

"Salarian physiology," Mordin said to himself, feeling smug at the advantage. He would be able to go back to work now.

In fact, he remembered that it was just about time for the latest samples to be done cooking down in the lab. He moved to get out of the bed, theorizing that if he was quick enough he might even have time to create a few extra ocular flash-bang implants for the crew before evening. His uniform lay waiting for him, draped over the couch. He picked up the black and red undersuit, and then the dented armor stained with dust. He picked up the shoulder speaker.

But Mordin looked down at everything gathered up in his arms, then back to Shepard. She was fast asleep beneath the pile of blankets, breathing softly and steadily.

He hesitated as he watched her. Mordin had always been impressed that the various biological uncertainties and impossibilities that made up Shepard's existence could combine in such a way in private. She was a hurricane of precise, tactical violence out on the battlefield. She was kind on her ship, a little temperamental but still beautiful and intense. He had never been surprised that she was the first human Spectre, nor that someone would go to such lengths to save her from the fate of Alchera.

They must have missed her, he thought to himself. He would have. Shepard was, after all, very good at not even trying to kiss him.

But occasionally he would point to his cheek, leaning over in the lab, and she'd kiss him there. After all, if Mordin was ever going to kiss anyone at all, it would have been her.

And so he watched her for a moment, blinking slowly. Then he left the uniform with its dust on the couch and headed back to the bed. He sank into the blankets again and pressed his forehead against hers.

Shepard opened her eyes, still mostly asleep. "Mordin?" she said quietly.

Mordin wrapped his arms around her, smiled when she did the same. "A pleasant occupation," he began singing very softly to her, "for a rather susceptible professor..."

Doctor's orders, he decided.


End file.
